Bray-sur-Somme, France
August 8th 1918
Even though the chilling rain came down in violent, cold lashes, second lieutenant Hatfield could not keep his eyes from the bridge to his south-west. The contours of it were only barely visible, obscured by the heavy downpour that had the same effect as a dense fog. Had a column moved across it, though, he would have noticed. The thundering of hooves and army boots on cobblestone were unmistakable. Yet, the whole area was quiet.
Far too quiet, in fact. Two days ago, the thunder of mortars in the distance had ceased, for what seemed like the first time in over four years. The silence of the guns was a prelude for an attack, as the field guns stopped firing while their own troops were engaged in close combat. After the creeping barrage, of course. Hatfield had only read about the practice, and thinking about the progressing puffs of dirt blowing up just feet in front of him made his skin crawl. The roar of mortars had spooked him enough while his platoon passed the rear army positions, let alone if they were ever to be taken under fire.
Yet, even after a day and a half, no column had passed. Today was the 8th, the planned start of the offensive. Troops should have been pouring past all day, starting at early dawn. Now, all that was pouring past was streams of water passing through the mud. There used to be grass here, but this area had been visited by advancing armies five times. Twice in 1914, during the first advance and retreat of the German army, then twice in 1915 during the Somme offensive, and this year the Germans had made advances here during their spring offensive. This would have been the sixth time.
“Bugger. Useless” Hatfield muttered as he dug his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. He would hear the approaching columns whether he was inside or outside, it would not matter. Standing there, soaking wet with cold rain and puddles up to his ankles, would not hurry up a thing. Worse of all, he would not be able to light a cigarette here. Staring once more at the bridge, hopeful for some movement, he shook his head and turned around, walking towards the farmhouse.
The superstructure of the farm still remained, and it was mostly water tight. The platoon had made the living room, which was easiest to keep warm and not as draughty as the rest, their sleeping quarters. Most of the days of the last week had been spent outside, but with weather like this the platoon kept to their devices on the top floor. Rain only passed through a few shrapnel holes, and there was a bit of draught, but it was mostly comfortable. Demolishing the shed had given them plenty of firewood which was used to keep the place dry and comfortable. The men played cards, read books, talked… whatever they had to do to keep their minds of things.
War was boring. The thought had crept up on Hatfield a few times in the past weeks. It was boring. You sat around doing nothing, then there was news about something exciting happening somewhere else, then you had to sit around some more and then you got orders to move out to another boring place. Somewhere, Hatfield had hoped to actually be set upon by Germans here, just to break the monotony. But no, the front had been quiet. There had not even been the sound of a gunfight for a day.
Hatfield came up the stairs to the top floor of the farmhouse. As he entered, some expecting stares were thrown in his direction. He simply shook his head.
“Nothing, lads.”
“If we don’t hear anything by six, I guess we break radio silence. Maybe they forgot to mention a change of plans”
A thought hit Hatfield as he said so. Maybe the war was over. Maybe there was a peace, and HQ just forgot to notify the lone squad in the forward positions. Or the colonel was playing a cruel prank on them. He removed his coat and hung it over a chair next to the fire, taking a cigarette from his inner pocket.
“Anyone got a light?” he asked his men.
